Rolling With the Punches
by Readwriteedit
Summary: She has her best conversations with her mother when hitting synthetic leather bags as hard as she possibly can. Somehow slamming scraped knuckles into hard surfaces helps to block out the pain. T for remotely mature themes and slight language. (Note: I don't own anything.)
1. And Then There Were Eight

She can't sleep. Jane is snoring quietly on her side of the room, just like normal, but she still can't sleep. Her stomach is churning and there's a fierce pounding in her head.

Nothing is ever going to be normal again.

That one fateful line announced between "Pass the mashed potatoes" and "Elbow off the table, Batty," had changed everything: "I'm pregnant."

Two simple words that had somehow morphed their perfectly wonderful stepmother into a nauseating symbol of something far worse: replacement.

The clock on the nightstand blinks out a horrible neon 4:30, reminding her that she's been laying there stewing for five hours, and isn't likely to get any sleep at all before school in the morning.

She pushes her self out of bed, needing to get out of this house, to go anywhere beyond the realm of pregnancies and babies and mothers long deceased. She needs to feel the pounding of something besides her head, kick things and make her muscles scream so that she doesn't have to.

She's proud of herself for not slamming the front door on her way out. No use in waking the entire neighborhood, even if this pre-dawn morning is surprisingly beautiful. Her mother always used to love the early morning, but Skye has never felt the drive to be up before the sun.

She's about to take off down the street, when she notices that the Geiger's side door to their garage is cracked open, and a single bulb is illuminating what has turned into the Geiger Boys' training studio over the years.

And suddenly only one thing sounds better than running away from this recent development: She needs to hit something. Hard.

There are gloves hanging on the wall, but she ignores them, enough adrenaline and anger pumping through her veins that she can ignore the pain that runs through her hands when her fists connect with the rough, rigid surface of the nearest hanging bag.

Her breath is coming fast before she can finally whisper what has been bothering her for the last several hours: "Oh, Mommy, how could he?"

And then the dam breaks, and her tears are coming faster than her punches, fury and grief running together in an endless stream of hurt.

She's lost track of time when suddenly the door opens, and oldest Geiger boy walks in, looking surprised and a bit wary. She hurries the tears off her cheeks—the salt water stinging her skinned knuckles—but she's knows its useless. He's seen, and now he'll want an explanation.

"Did you hear?"

He nods slowly, watching her from a distance as if she is a wounded wild beast. Of course, he's heard; news travels faster than the speed of light on Gardam Street. Especially a hot topic like the soon-to-be newest Penderwick.

"It's not fair," she starts, attempting to cover the depth of her hurt with a lighter explanation. "This baby is going to change all our lives. They should have asked us how we felt about it."

He nods again, obviously not buying her story. She tries again.

"It's embarrassing. They're parents! They shouldn't be having kids!"

Grabbing a pair of gloves off the wall, he straps them onto his own hands and lands a few hits on the bag next to hers before speaking.

"I'm sure it is. But everyone knows Skye Penderwick doesn't give a damn about what other people think."

She hits the bag a few more times, trying to figure out a way to avoid telling him the truth, before finally giving up, and leaning her forehead against the her swinging target in defeat.

"How could he do that to her? How could he betray my mom like that?" She barely whispered it, but it's obvious that he heard her, because his bag takes a beating before he finally responds.

"Ah, that's a tricky one, isn't it . . ."

"I just," there's a sob in her throat, but she swallows it down. "I just don't understand how he can still claim to love my mother and yet—" it takes her a while to come up with the right phrase, " _make a baby_ with another woman."

"Well, surely you knew it was going to happen when they got married, right?"

He's purposefully not looking at her, and she thinks she sees a slight tint of red on his cheeks. She's sure her own are colored to match.

"Well, yeah, but I could ignore it before. Now we're going to be faced with proof 24/7."

He laughs, this time, shaking his head in amusement. "Okay, good point." He sighs, leaning against the bag and smiling slightly, though his eyes are serious again. "Honestly, Skye, I know what you're saying. I would totally freak out if my parents suddenly up and announced that they were having a new baby, and I don't even have the whole "betrayal" thing to consider. But here's the thing: like it or not this baby is coming, and I think it'll be easier if you can embrace it. If it helps, maybe try to think of it as an adoption . . ."

Still smiling softly, he lifts her hand from where it rests on the bag and blows cool air across her throbbing knuckles. "Come on, let's get you fixed up."

* * *

Two days later, she finds a small box waiting on the roof for her. Inside is a key, and a brief note in Nick's handwriting.

 _It's all about learning to roll with the punches, Penderwick._

* * *

 _For more stories, click on "Readwriteedit."_


	2. It's All In The Name

The first time she hears it, she freezes.

She, Jane, and Jeffrey are at the kitchen sink washing the dinner dishes, when Batty opens her mouth and, at the same time, the gates to Skye's own personal hell.

The dish in her hand—a rare surviving plate from her mother's reign of the house—falls back into the sink and shatters, but everything else continues on as normal.

Jeffrey is the only one who pauses, staring at her with a haunted pity in his green eyes, a piercing "I'm so sorry" that hits her straight in the stomach.

There's only one thing to do. She runs.

She drops the sponge on the floor and sprints out the front door, ignoring the hollers of concern from her confused family members. Running away seems to be her first defense these days, but she can't even bring herself to care. All she can think of is that one, horrible word falling out of Batty's mouth, and the way no one even bothered to notice.

She slams the door to the garage behind her, tossing the key onto a nearby chair, and once again ignoring the gloves on hanging on the wall. She wants this to hurt.

She wants to bleed and cry and do everything she can to mask the searing pain in her stomach. She'll settle for pounding the swinging bag to pulp.

It's not too long, however, before he finds her, because—like it or not—he always sees right through her defenses. He leans against the door-jam, out of breath and sweating, watching in mild awe as she pummels her inanimate foe with fiercesome accuracy.

"Come here a lot?"

Jab, cross, breathe. Jab, cross, breathe. "I usually start my mornings off this way. The shrink says it does me a world of good."

A tiny part of her wants to squelch the sarcasm running off her tongue; Jeffrey hasn't done anything to deserve it. But more of her wants to scream at this situation, and at the fact that he's witnessing her in this state.

"Does your family know? Because no one had any idea where you'd disappeared to . . ."

She grunts, partially from the impact of her shin on the bag, and partially out of disbelief for her family's lack of insight. "They think I've taken to crack-of-dawn runs."

"How about the Geigers? Do they know you routinely commandeer their garage?"

"Well, Nick gave me a key, and I've been coming here every morning from five to six for nearly two years, so yeah—I think they have a pretty good idea."

He's silent for a moment, letting this all sink in, and suddenly she can't take it any more.

"You heard her too, right?! I'm not going crazy . . ."

He runs a hand through his messy hair and takes a deep breath. "I am so, so sorry, Skye."

"Did she really say it? Because I _cannot believe_ she would say that!"

"Skye . . ." For once, he's out of words. She doesn't blame him.

"I _cannot believe_ she would call Iantha 'Mom.'" She knows she should probably stop there, but now that the latch is lifted she can't seem to stop. "She owes our mother her _life_ , and yet she has the nerve, she has the gall, she has the . . . the . . ."

"Audacity?"

"Yes! She has the damned audacity to call another woman 'Mom!' How in _hell_ is that considered okay?"

Her vision is so blurred by this point that she can hardly see her target, flailing blinding for something, _anything_ , to hit. But it isn't until his arms come around her from behind that she lets the tears finally fall.

She sobs into his shoulder for what feels like hours, just the two of them wrapped around each other and a swinging punching bag counting off the time like a silent metronome. When he finally speaks, his voice and gruff and broken.

"I don't know what to tell you, Skye. I can only imagine what this must feel like. But you have to remember that Batty's never had any memories of your mom; she's never had a mother-figure before. And I know it must hurt like hell to watch, but you might consider being thankful that she's finally found someone she loves and respects enough to call 'Mom.'"

She shutters into his shoulder, and he sighs, squeezing her a little tighter. "Your mom chose Batty's life over her own, Skye. Above all else, she wanted her daughters to be happy. And I've spent enough time with you guys to know that Iantha does that. She's good for your family, and she is a good mom, even if she isn't yours."

It takes all the strength she can muster to nod and smile weakly as she step away. "I know. I still want to paint her face on this stupid bag, though."

The quick kiss he presses to her forehead feels like an angel's breath on her skin. "Somehow I doubt Mrs. Geiger would approve of that. How 'bout I help you make a voodoo doll instead?"

* * *

 _I really struggled with this component of TPIS, and I have a feeling that Skye wouldn't have taken to it too warmly either. Why Birdsall made that decision is beyond me . . ._


End file.
